


Sowing Dissent

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Fallen Angel [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Elizabeth Ffoukes, Multi, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, ice man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6248962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how did the Holmes brothers plot the Reichenbach Fall? Angst, arguments, secrets and lies abound.  Brotherly relationships are stretched to the breaking point, and Sherlock starts to keep John in the dark. Part One of the Fallen Angel series is called Sowing Dissent, because when Sherlock decides to take on Moriarty, there is a little local difficulty- Mycroft is dead-set against the idea.  Follows on from Level Up, but can stand alone, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Prime Minister?"

The gentle query dragged the man's attention back to the reality of the Cabinet Committee Room A. The baby-faced man with a receding hairline was thinking about the meeting due to come over lunch, when he would be briefed by his Special Adviser on the latest poll figures. The calendar was relentless- six weeks to go before the European Elections, and at last count his party's figures were trailing not only that of his coalition party, but of the latest spoiler group, UKIP. He sighed.

The grey haired civil servant on his left was the new Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet Office, Sir Stephen Reynolds. Grey was a good descriptor. He was colourless, a 'safe pair of hands'. Given the traitor he was replacing*, the Prime Minister reckoned it was all he could expect.

He shifted in his chair and looked back down at the printed agenda on the table in front of him, before drily intoning, "Right. The final item - Update on Pending Issues. Anybody got anything earth shattering to report, or can we safely adjourn?" He put a bit of sarcasm into the tone. Not that the monthly meeting of COBRA wasn't important, but his party political concerns were more pressing today than national security. If he wasn't in office, then national security wouldn't be a matter for him anymore.

Down the long mahogany table, the MI6 Director General leaned forward. "Just one, Prime Minister. An update on the Moriarty issue."

The PM racked his brain for a moment, then found the memory. "Yes, that's the bloke that supposedly has a computer skeleton key? The one who caused a bit of a fuss with the Yanks. Well, that's died down and there's been nothing new for the past three months, so perhaps it is time to remove this one from the pending category." He felt pleased. The PM's head was stuffed with far too many bits of trivia; it wasn't always easy to remember who was who in the world inhabited by most of the people sitting around the table. The heads of MI6, MI5 and GCHQ, plus the Security Liaison Service sat at their usual places; their various hangers-on were scattered behind their masters, sitting in the uncomfortable hard chairs against the sides of the committee room. The PM thought of them as 'faithful spaniels', willing to spring forward, retrieving some odd bit of information that might have fallen out of their masters' grasp. He always ignored them, even if he couldn't ignore the spymasters sitting in the comfortable chairs.

At the centre of the table directly across from the Prime Minister, Mycroft Holmes opened a file that lay in front of him. By that simple movement, the others around the table knew that Moriarty would not be dropped from future COBRA agendas, no matter what the PM might want. The PM sighed again. "Oh, very well; tell me why I am wrong, but just get on with it."

Mrs Ffoukes drew breath to start, but the PM interrupted again. "Briefly, please; I have an appointment in…" he gave an all-to-obvious glance at his watch, "…sixteen minutes in the House."

She carried on, undaunted. "You are aware that the damage done to the Bulgarian and Romanian organised criminal networks eighteen months ago changed the patterns of traffic. Instead of the southern route, we've seen more illegal arms, drugs, immigrants and money laundering making its way into the UK via the northern route, through Scandinavia. We think that Moriarty is behind this shift. Our sources suggest that he has been 'consulted' by various parties on how the improve their ability to evade our usual procedures."

"Last month, we had a breakthrough- the Swedes arrested Karl Levander, the brains behind the new routes being set up. That was as a result of an anonymous tip-off that arrived, complete with the evidence needed to get a conviction. We suspect someone in the network itself, a competitor, gave Levander up. We also know that the Swedish  _Sakerhetspolisen_  were about to get Levander to turn over some interesting evidence linking Moriarty to it all. But then he was mysteriously killed in the maximum security prison where he was being held in Stockholm."

Elizabeth Ffoukes exchanged glances with Mycroft Holmes, sitting across the table from her. It had been a blow to lose the chance to interrogate the Swede. Her agents were on their way to Stockholm when the news of the murder led to their recall.

Mycroft took up the baton. "Within the past month, we've had reports that the network has a new man, known only as "the Viking" at the helm. All we know is that he is Norwegian. He's managed to get Moriarty's ear somehow, and the volume of business going through the Nordic route into Britain has literally doubled in the past two weeks. It's a problem, and we are working on it. But, this is a setback, sir, and one we felt obliged to report."

The PM sighed again. "Very well, Mrs Ffoukes, Mister Holmes, you have done your duty. Duly noted." He closed the file and handed it to the Permanent Secretary.

oOo

In the back seat of the anonymous black government car, Elizabeth Ffoukes leaned back and closed her eyes. The PM was…annoying. His over-riding concern now was getting re-elected, and everything else was being pushed aside. The local and European elections in six weeks would be a barometer of his party's fortunes in the general election that had to come in June next year. From now until the day after that election, she knew that he would be driven by priorities other than what was good for the security of Britain.  _A price paid for being a democracy._

The car was heading west on Millbank and approaching Vauxhall Bridge when her mobile went off. She pulled it out of her handbag and took a look at the caller ID. _Number blocked._

That didn't happen very often. Very few people in the world had her direct phone number; fewer still whom she would not have known. She wondered.  _Wrong number?_  It was possible that a civilian might hit a certain series of keys without realising. Elizabeth Ffoukes decided to take the call, knowing that her people would be able to find the number of the caller, and make sure it did not happen again.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Ffoukes."

 _Not a wrong number then, but not someone I know._ She realised that the man's tenor voice on the other end had a foreign accent.

"Yes? Who is this and how did you get this number?"

She heard the smile in the voice that replied. "Consider me a fan. We have…reason to communicate. And I would like that to be face-to-face."

Now she could detect a Scandinavian accent. Soft, with a trace of a suppressed lisp. He spoke good English, but was clearly not a native.

"You haven't answered either of my questions, and until you do, then we are not going to communicate any further." She put as much authority as she could into her tone of voice.

That provoked a chuckle. "You know me as The Viking. How was the COBRA meeting? Was the Prime Minster even remotely interested? I doubt it, really."

Alarm bells rang in her head. "How do you know about such a meeting?"

"The same way I know what your phone number is. I have  _sources._ "

She was still digesting that fact when he continued. "In any case, it is irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is that I am in London and I wish to meet you."

"Why?"

"Because we have mutual interests."

"That's…" She was about to say "ridiculous", but held her tongue. He would know that she would do everything in her power to capture him, interrogate him and then hand him over to his home country's intelligence services.

"Yes, of course, Mrs Ffoukes. You are wondering why I would risk such a thing, and are even now, as we speak, considering how to inform the  _Nasjonal sikkerhetsmyndighet_  and the  _Politiets sikkerhetstjeneste_  about my contacting you. I can assure you that would be pointless."

She wanted to keep him talking. The longer he was on the phone, the more likely that her people would be able to trace the call. She pressed the button that opened the privacy screen between her and the front seat occupants. Catching their attention, Elizabeth mimed the fact that she wanted the agent in the passenger seat beside the driver to contact the office and listen into the call.

There was another chuckle. "I do recognise the sound of a Daimler's privacy screen, and the fact that you are now communicating to your people. No point in trying to trace the call. The phone is pre-paid, anonymous and being routed through more than a dozen ISPs; don't waste your time. I am not a novice, Mrs Ffoukes."

"Then if as you say you are not a novice, why would I risk putting myself anywhere near a person such as you?"

"Because I mean you no harm. And I am going to be quite helpful to you."

Now it was her turn to be amused. "I should believe you simply because you say such a thing?" Her incredulity was clear.

"Of course not, I won't insult your intelligence. First, a few confidence building measures: let's start with the fact that I am the person who tipped off the Swedes about Levander. Unfortunately, Moriarty got to him before you and the Swedes could learn anything useful from him. But, there is more where that came from. I am sending you a little present now. I suggest that you read it while you tell your driver to turn left onto Lambeth Palace Road when he gets across the bridge. It should take you until about Waterloo Station to digest it. Then we can resume this conversation." The caller disconnected. But it was followed almost immediately with the soft ping of an incoming e mail message.

She told her driver to go left, away from Vauxhall Cross. If she decided to take the scenic route back to HQ, that was her business. Her eyebrows rose when she realised that the message was not a text, but rather something sent to her e mail account. The blackberry was the most secure phone in the world- and this one had special firewalls custom-built to encrypt every incoming and outgoing e mail.  _Who IS this guy?_

Elizabeth leaned forward to the passenger sitting next to the driver. "Frazier, tell the boys and girls that I have picked up a file that has broken the encryption wall. Scramble some discrete backup following us. I need protection  _now_." There was something in the tone of her voice that made the agent check his weapon even as he hit speed dial again on his own blackberry to put her orders into effect.

She leaned back onto the leather seat and eyed the file icon on her phone screen. The Viking had managed to breach protection that was supposed to be fool-proof. For a moment, she wondered if opening it would cause some sort of virus attack. Elizabeth then kicked herself mentally. Anyone able to subvert that encryption would not _need_  to attack her phone. She clicked on the file.

And drew a startled breath, as it opened. It was a document – a bill of lading, to be precise, for a container arriving in Folkestone port tonight. What caught her attention was an embedded note.

 _Enjoy. Look under the floorboards of the container arriving from Bergen, destined for Birmingham. You will find heroin with a street value of £30 million, destined for the B515s_.

If true, as a piece of intelligence, this was priceless. The B515s were a notorious street gang in England's second city. The 'gift' had the desired effect. She was now incredibly curious why a criminal would be willing to trade such valuable information simply to impress her enough to make her willing to meet him.

Elizabeth punched the re-dial key. When it connected, she did not hesitate. "You have my attention."

"Good. Tell your driver to proceed along Stamford Road onto Southwark Street. And you can pass that information onto the car that is about to swing in behind yours; wouldn't want to lose your security blanket, would you?"

 _Whoever he is, he knows my protocols as well as I do._ That alarmed her almost as much as his gift intrigued her.


	2. Chapter 2

The Viking's instructions eventually led Elizabeth to the entrance of the Shard. She knew that the property owners were busy trying to sell off-plan the office space that would take up the first twenty eight floors of the landmark building. The first of four restaurants on levels 31 to 33 was being kitted out now, estimated opening would be next year, as would the main viewing platform on the top floors. She knew this because MI5 had briefed her about any 'trophy building' going up in London that could become a target for terrorist attack.

Levels 34 to 52 would be opening in two years as the Shangri La Hotel- the deal had been in the press four months ago. The world's richest property owners were now being courted for the private residential apartments that would take up the twelve floors above that. Rumours were that the space would be carved into ten flats with a price tag of over £50 million- but it was all speculation, because they wouldn't go on sale until after the hotel opened.

For now, it was still mostly a construction site. The outer glass curtain walls were in place, but the rest of the place was a hive of workers. Only the main reception was presentable, given it was serving as a marketing suite. Five agents accompanied her in through the main glass doors, fanning out to scan the area for threats. She showed her identification to the marketing person behind the desk, and asked for the construction manager to meet her quickly.

When he showed up in dirty coveralls, she told him who she was and watched the panic skitter across his brows. MI6 would only be onsite if there was a risk to the building.

"How many floors are being worked on- where you have people actually at work?" She gave the man her sternest gaze.

"Nineteen. Do you think the site is going to be attacked? I can get my security man down here in a minute."

She knew that the building's owners were Qatari, and more than a little paranoid about it being targeted by Islamist extremists. "No, not attacked. Just… used."

Simpson pulled floor maps out and spread them onto the counter-top, briefing the four others.

When Elizabeth's phone rang again, she answered on the second ring, leaving it on speaker phone.

"Ah, Mrs Ffoukes. Nice to see you have company now. Unfortunately, I'm not fond of crowds. So, you will be limited to three to accompany you in the lift. Take the third elevator from the left in the bank behind reception. Please know that I can observe you, so will see if you are not following my instructions."

The construction manager nodded. "There is CCTV in the lifts- a security precaution."

She thought about the number. Three agents…coincidence? No, probably yet more evidence that this person knew a lot about protocols. Anything less would have been deemed insufficient according to the protection training. She decided to probe.

"And how many of you are there?"

"I am alone- always."

If so, then the Viking was supremely confident; four against one was a ratio she liked. She nodded to Simpson and two of the other four, who followed her into the lift. When the doors closed, nothing happened. Then she heard another phone ringing- but not the one she was holding. A quick search of the lift car led to a small panel, behind which a phone could be heard ringing. It was prised open and the mobile handed to her. She opened the connection- again, putting on speaker phone so her team could hear the conversation. But then Elizabeth realised it was a text.

**15.12pm Hold the phone to the panel on the left of the close door button.**

She showed it to Simpson, then complied, looking up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the lift. As soon as the phone came within a few centimetres of the metal, the lift came to life and began its ascent. Silently, the four MI6 people watched the floor level sign flash rising numbers. The rapid ascent made her ears pop. After 40 flashed by, the lift began to decelerate, eventually easing to a gentle stop at Floor 63. The three agents had pulled weapons and moved Elizabeth to the side, behind one of the men, so that anyone firing in would miss the intended target.

The doors slid open. For a moment, no one moved. Then two of the agents went out, weapons ready, scanning both right and left. Simpson kept his finger on the open door button, holding it open.

A few more seconds passed, and Elizabeth began to feel a bit silly. Then the two agents announced that the foyer was clear, and she could disembark.

Out of the elevator, the raw state of the building became clear. The floor-plate was still concrete, but the central core and the steel girders needed to give the Shard its strength were in place. The view through the floor to ceiling windows was spectacular, but none of the MI6 eyes were on that.

The phone in Elizabeth's hand went off again. She glanced at the screen.

**15.14pm Around the back of the Lift shaft. Enjoy**

She showed the message to Simpson who sent one of the agents around the back of the concrete wall. Within seconds he reappeared. "Clear- except for a table, chair and a file, mam. They all check out."

Elizabeth sat down in the chair and wondered at the man who was willing to consider her comforts. She opened the file and began to read.

By page four, she knew the life history of the man known only as "The Viking." Thirty five, born in Alesund, on the coast, a small sea port. University at Bergen, then overseas at London's Imperial College. No name on the file, every place where it occurred on the text was blacked out. The birth certificate, driver's license, passport- with every image removed.  _Likes his privacy._  But, unless they were fakes, her people would be able to trace him. And if they were fakes, then they'd at least have a photo to use for image resolution software.  _He'd know that fact._  She found herself growing increasingly surprised by the risks the man was taking.

The file included a list of UK landing cards; as a Norwegian national, the Viking would be required like all non-EU residents to complete one each time he came in and out of the UK. Then a company registration document, at Stavanger. Offices in Malmo, Uppsala, Stockholm and Helsinki under the name Scanford, an import-export company, which according to the file had grown to some forty employees, turning over a tidy if unexciting profit. Just the sort of company not likely to attract much attention. The files had been conveniently translated into English.

Then came four sheets that surprised her- if they could be believed, four pages from the Norwegian PST- their equivalent of MI5- identifying a person known only as The Viking, in contact with Moriarty. Interestingly, there was one sheet that Elizabeth recognised from the briefing pack that had been handed over to her by the Norwegians investigating Karl Levander's death. An exact copy.  _If someone is setting this up, they are doing a great deal to authenticate it._  The next sheet was something that the Norwegians had  _not_  shared with her- the fact that they had connected Scanford with Levander.

Then, unbelievably, a sheet purporting to be a transcript of a call between The Viking and James Moriarty.

_JM: "So, you're the new kid on the block? I must say, you know how to get my attention. The move on [redacted] was quite cute. What can I do for you?"_

_TV: "Ask not what you can do for me; this is about what I can do for you."_

_JM: "You've already done me a disservice by sticking your nose where it was not welcome. You've cost me a useful tool, a means to an end. Explain to me why I shouldn't just kill you and be done with it?"_

_TV: "Because Levander was skimming- and he was useless. I can improve productivity, profitability and throughput. Your cut will improve; happy consultancy clients are surely worth something."_

_JM: "Of course, he was skimming. The eedjit had to make some money somewhere."_

_TV [interrupting]: "But you had him down for 8%. You didn't know about the 12% he was taking from the Belarussians on top, selling your client's details on the side."_

_JM: "That's… good. Prove it and we might do something interesting. Come to London- let's talk."_

_TV: "No. My identity is my protection and you'll never know who you are dealing with- at least, not to look at. But, the proof of my value will be clearly visible. So, those are the terms. Just the same as Levander; I'm not greedy."_

_[line lost]_

This was a transcript from the  _Nasjonal sikkerhetsmyndighet_. And to her eye, the top secret stamp was extremely authentic.

 _Why would he give me the evidence I need to crucify him? Why didn't the Norwegians share this with us?_  The two questions warred for her attention.

Then the phone rang again, and she picked up.

"Mrs. Ffoukes. You have now read the file. You know from your own work that my relationship with Moriarty has prospered. He doesn't know my identity, but I am prepared to share it with you."

"WHY? Why would you do this?" She let some of her perplexed confusion creep into her tone. "I don't understand."

The next words she heard were not from the phone, but from a man coming around the corner of the lift shaft. The slight lisp, the Norwegian accented English continued, but now in a register below where it had been on the phone. A proper baritone replied, "To prove a point, Elizabeth."

MI6's DG looked up into a pair of grey green eyes that she knew all too well. For a moment, she was too stunned to reply.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock Holmes. What the  _bloody hell_  is going on?"

The young man's smile was genuine; he clearly enjoyed surprising her. "Do us both a favour and tell your minions to disappear. They can wait downstairs."

She nodded to Simpson, and he collected the other agents. Sherlock waited until the lift doors closed.

"The file is genuine."

Elizabeth tried to digest that fact. "Just what does that actually  _mean_ , Sherlock.?"

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, let me make it even more obvious. I'm Lars Sigursson. But, you may call me 'The Viking', if you prefer." He shrugged his shoulders. "In fact, it would be best if you did."

She looked down at the file, closed the manila folder over the papers and stood up. Then she walked over to the glass window and looked out over London, trying to think through the implications of the last forty minutes. "What game are you playing, Sherlock?"

"No game. It's real. I'm the person on that file. I have been wriggling my way into Moriarty's network for the past four months."

She turned and glared. "If that's true, then you are guilty of criminal activity of such breath-taking stupidity that even your brother won't be able to save you from it."

That provoked a smirk. "Oh, I wouldn't tell him just yet, if I were you. Not when I am about to explain how you can do the impossible. Want to defeat James Moriarty? Of course, you do. Every Security chief in thirty two countries has him on their most wanted list. But, I can assure you, that not even my brother has been able to do that on his own. You and I, however, will do it."

As he locked eyes with her, she could see he was deadly serious. "I have investigated you very carefully, Elizabeth Ffoukes. I had to be sure that you are not one of his fallen angels. Moriarty cannot suspect anything of what I have in mind. You and I working together are going to destroy Moriarty, once and for all."

She shook her head. "You don't understand…"

He interrupted. "Yes, I do, actually – far more than you do. I have seen every piece of intelligence in MI5 and 6's files on him, what my brother knows that you don't, and added my own information, as well."

"Mycroft would never break security protocols to share that information with you." Now her voice had an edge to it.

The younger man smirked. "Who said he  _shared_  anything with me? He has no idea that I've ransacked his systems- and yours by the way- to gather what I needed to know. Neither of you were willing to play, so I just…decided to take matters in my own hands. Now sit back down in that chair, and prepare to listen. When I am done, then you can decide whether you are going to remain a part of the problem, or become part of the solution."

oOo

Almost two hours later, Elizabeth Ffoukes emerged from the lift to rejoin her agents. Twice during the time when she was upstairs on the 63rd level, she responded to Simpson's texts to verify that she was fine- just taking a while. She also broke off her discussion with Sherlock just long enough to contact her private office and tell her PA to cancel the rest of the afternoon's meetings. She'd not be returning to the office tonight, but would head directly home after this meeting.

Now sitting in the comfort of her own living room, looking into the flames of her gas fire and sipping from a glass of chilled Gavi wine, she was thinking things through very carefully. Her husband, a noted QC practicing in the City of London, was out at a corporate dinner tonight. Barristers needed to network. Just as well, because she needed the quiet time to think it through.

"Not a plan", Sherlock had said. And he was right. It was far more diabolical than that. As he talked her through it, every time she thought of an objection, he answered it in his next breath- before she could even put her concern into words.

"Think of it as a series of interlocked scenarios. Not a linear plan- that would be visible to Moriarty and allow him to duck it, just as he has every other attempt to stop him. No, this time, I am using a different strategy, one that remains flexible no matter what he does."

"But what about Moriarty's own contingency plans? Sherlock, he's held off the wrath of the world's secret services with the threat of what he will do if he is taken prisoner. For every day he is held, there will be another crime that even he can't stop. It's a dead man's switch, escalating every day until a final doomsday scenario for the country stupid enough to lock him up. You  _cannot_  begin by doing just that. It's madness!"

He had laughed. "Yes- exactly. And when his contingency plans are broken, dismantled one-by-one even before they can be launched, then the people he has paid to carry out his threats will not trust him again. You'll let him go before he gets to do anything really serious. But, the damage to his reputation will have been done. His clients, his fallen angels, his own people will know he is not infallible."

"How are you going to outsmart his contingency plans? He doesn't know the details- so interrogation, no matter how fierce, will not get it out of him."

"He will tell us just enough to allow us to dismantle the crimes, one-by-one."

"Why? Why would he risk sabotaging his own contingency? What possible incentive could you give him to hand over even the slightest clue about his intended crimes?"

"Me." He grinned at her confusion. "In exchange for juicy tidbits about me, he will hand over just enough to play the game."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because I'm not the only one who gets bored. And he will think he can out-fox us, get something that he wants, without giving anything significant away. When he is proven wrong, then we will make him very, very angry."

"So, your idea is to…what, royally piss him off with this so he goes after you once he is out of jail? Didn't Mycroft ever tell you that provoking the neighbourhood bully was sure to end in tears?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course he did. But it didn't make any difference. I got into scrapes- and got myself out of them, too. Big Brother couldn't be with me in the school halls, Elizabeth. I learned how to be smarter than any bully, rather than avoiding a fight. Playing safe with Moriarty is no longer a luxury. We have no choice. It's either on my terms or on his. If I can provoke him into taking this personally? Well, again that fact will be seen, noticed by his clients, his enemies, his own people. Another sign of his instability. We  _can_  undermine him."

"He'll  _kill_  you, Sherlock."

"Eventually, he will try. But I will make him so  _angry_  that he won't go for the clean kill. He will want to drag it out, make me pay. He's already threatened to do just that. And while he is being held, we will feed him what he wants to know.- that I am behind it. He will extort information from his interrogator about me, in exchange for little clues about his plans. He thinks he is clever enough to outwit me. Think of this as my version of his five pips game, only this time, it's  _my_  game, not his."

She listened for almost an hour, probing him on the details. Then she made him stop, stood up and walked back over to the windows, where twilight was beginning to fall, and the lights of London were coming on. "You know  _he_  won't agree."

There was no reply. She tried to make him see. "It's too great a risk, for both you and for the country. Mycroft won't  _allow_  this to happen."

For the first time that afternoon, Sherlock let his temper show. "I don't _care_  whether Mycroft agrees or disagrees. It's not up to him. You and I can manoeuvre my brother into a position where he can't refuse, and he can't interfere, either. Legally, you can go to the Parliamentary Oversight Committee and get him recused from the whole case, if he won't co-operate. Lady Smallwood will keep him in check. He will bluster and fuss, but in the end, there is only one choice. He must either decide to help and make it possible for me to take Moriarty on and win, or he decides to interfere. If he does that, it will cost him his career and I will most likely die in my attempt, because he tried to interfere. Nothing Mycroft does will stop me from doing this, Elizabeth. You need to understand that."

She sighed. "Why  _you_?"

"Because I am the only one that Moriarty will believe capable of taking him on. I have no  _country_  to protect, no honour, no loyalty. I can keep this personal and in so doing protect the country from whatever vengeance he might wish on it. If you or Mycroft tried, you'd be risking retaliation. He's held every country to ransom for years because of that. I have nothing to lose."

She looked at him in surprise. "What about John Watson?"

"What about him?"

"Moriarty has already targeted him to put pressure on you. I've read the report on the Bomber, you know."

"That tactic won't work a second time."

"Why not? You've demonstrated it already has worked."

"Because I will be putting distance between John Watson and myself, so he can't be used."

"He's not part of your plan then?"

"No, of course not. He will know nothing about it. When the time comes to disappear, I will. I'll take up my identity as Lars Sigurson, and I will keep working from the inside. I don't expect it will be easy to take Moriarty and his network apart. But that will be easier to do if I am not Sherlock Holmes. He has to believe that he's won."

"We can't be seen to be doing business with a criminal active in Moriarty's network. And none of our people can be implicated in any illegal activity. There are  _rules_ , Sherlock."

He smirked. "For you, maybe, but not for me. Anyway, who said anything about you doing  _business_  with me? I am not now, nor will I ever be working for any British agency. I am a private individual. And any crimes are being and will be committed in the future are by Lars Sigurson, citizen of Norway. I intend making myself invaluable, and then I will take his network away from him. His clients will accept someone able to prove that Moriarty is unstable and untrustworthy, whereas Lars will be a rock of stability they can cling to- until I turn the whole lot over to the authorities."

He gestured to the open file on the table. "No one in the UK government will be able to draw the connection. You'll simply be in contact with a double agent, from a foreign country- which is what you do on a regular basis. I am telling you that it will be deniable, totally. You shouldn't tell anyone that I am behind it, although my brother is likely to deduce it. And you are smart enough to follow my suggestions about how to organise the capture and interrogation of Moriarty outside of the UK and in a place where the incarceration is also deniable. So, this isn't rendition, and you won't get in trouble for it. I can guarantee that Moriarty will not want to broadcast the fact that he was captured, and his plans dismantled- he won't want the bad publicity to show just how he was beaten at his own game. So, you can't use my brother as an excuse, Elizabeth. I take full responsibility."

She was appalled on a personal level for Sherlock. And yet, the more he talked her through it, the more she could see that it might indeed work.

Mycroft would be the stumbling block. She could imagine his reaction. She shook her head again, playing the conversation. "Your brother won't agree."

"All Mycroft has to do is do as he is told. Interrogate Moriarty, lay the bait and set the trap. After that, it doesn't matter; in fact, it's even better if you don't tell him a thing more. I certainly won't be telling him anything.  _If_ he wants to keep his job, you can remind him that he has to help in this limited way and then keep clear. If push comes to shove, and the prat tries to make it a resigning issue, then let him. Out of the way, and stripped of power, then he can do less damage to my plans. Whatever my brother thinks to the contrary, he is not irreplaceable. It doesn't have to be Mycroft, anyone could sow the seeds with Moriarty, given what I will give you."

She finally voiced what she had been thinking as he told her his ideas. "What if  _I_  don't agree?"

He walked over to the windows and stood beside her, too close for politeness. Using his height to dominate her, he said quietly  _"Nothing_  is going to deter me.  _No one_ is going to stop me. If you don't agree, then I will simply do this in another way, without you." He gestured to the file. "Lars Sigurson may disappear, so you can't trace him; I have a contingency plan for that, too. I will go undercover and destroy Moriarty’s network from the inside, whether you want me to or not.  _You_  get to choose only one thing. Help me, and improve the odds of my success, or stand aside. Simple choice, really."

She thought about the enormity of what the man standing beside her in the growing twilight was planning. "Sherlock, this means leaving everything behind, letting Moriarty destroy everything you are."

"I know that. The difference is that I don't care. No one has been willing to do this, no one has been able to. I'm uniquely capable of this, and I am utterly determined."

Two hours after the conversation, Sherlock's ruthless words still ringing in her ears, she didn't doubt that determination. Elizabeth took another sip of her white wine. It had warmed up in her hand; beads of condensation ran down the sides of the glass, making it slippery. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock Holmes was the only one she thought just might be able to pull it off. She made her decision, and pulled out her phone to send him a text.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft closed his file and pushed his chair back from the glass-topped table. Alongside him, the other three heads of the security services also started to pack up. They had survived the tedium of another meeting at Portcullis House in front of the Parliamentary Intelligence Oversight Committee. Created by the coalition government now in power, the twelve MPs and peers selected for their supposed expertise in "sensitive" subjects presented the services with a challenge. In a representative democracy, elected and appointed politicians liked to think that they could exercise some degree of control over the 'machinery' of state security, but it was always an exercise of shadow-boxing. They could not be trusted with either the whole picture or the minutiae of detail, yet appearances had to be maintained, and the four directors routinely showed up once a quarter to deflect questions and play their part in the farce.

As he stood, the Chair of the Committee caught his eye. Lady Smallwood was from a minor aristocratic family, who had become a life peer on her own merits for "services to the academic sector" before marrying Lord Smallwood, a Conservative Party whip in the House of Lords. Unlike her husband, she was no fool. A former university lecturer with a ferociously bright mind, behind a rather blonde exterior, she was one of the few on the committee that Mycroft could just about tolerate. As people started to leave the committee room, she came over to him.

"A word, Mister Holmes, if you wouldn't mind? In private. I've asked Elizabeth Ffoukes to join us as well. We can do it here once the others have gone, because at least this room is secure. It was swept by the surveillance team just before we started."

He wondered what she might want to talk about. Nothing on the agenda today had been particularly sensitive. Most of the conversation had been about the continuing deterioration of the situation in Syria, and whether the intelligence services were being leaned on by the Americans or anyone else to provide evidence that would warrant intervention. _They're still all obsessed with Iraq and the fiasco of non-existent weapons of mass destruction._ Stable doors, bolted horses; it all bored Mycroft. Politicians seemed congenitally unable to stop fighting yesterday's battles.

Elizabeth had not moved from her seat. Mycroft studied her. The teal blue suit she was wearing was a little sharper edged and more professional than she usually wore to this committee, where she had no need to impress anyone. _Why the battle dress?_ Mycroft always wore a tailored three piece suit that was immaculately detailed; it spoke of power, authority, tradition- and wealth. He never altered, lest someone be able to deduce something significant about him because of his choice.

And there were other signs. He knew Elizabeth well enough to see that she'd spent more time on her make-up, and her salt and pepper hair had been blown dry with more attention to detail this morning that usual. He could detect certain signs of nervousness in her posture, her focus now on the papers that they had been using during the meeting. He realised that she was only using those papers to keep her eyes down; there was certainly nothing of real interest in the contents. That fact put him slightly on edge. _Not a casual meeting then._ Lady Smallwood had told her about the topic before the meeting.

Intrigued, he waited for the room to clear. As soon as the three were alone, Lady Smallwood walked to the door and locked it- an extraordinary act that startled Mycroft.

"A rather dramatic step, I suppose, but it is important that we are not interrupted. Please sit down, Mister Holmes." She pulled a chair out from the table and drew it so she was sitting opposite Elizabeth, pointing to another at the end of the table, so that Mycroft would be sitting between them.

Alarm bells started to ring in his mind. This was something planned between the two women, and he had been kept out of the loop.

Elizabeth pulled a sheet from her file and brought it to the top. Even from his sideways position, Mycroft knew that it was not one of the papers used in the meeting. It was hand-written in Elizabeth's careful script, only one paragraph with a number of bullet points below. She looked up at him for the first time, and he was startled to see…concern, even compassion in her eyes when she looked at him.

"We've been informed that a group of private individuals in a place that doesn't really acknowledge a government apprehended an individual three days ago. This person is of considerable interest to us. The situation creates an opportunity that we intend taking, even though it needs to be on a deniable basis. All evidence…" she gestured at the sheet, "…will be destroyed and this conversation will be denied, should anyone ask about it subsequently."

He was intrigued. "Who is the person of interest?" Calmness personified, his tone came out slightly bored.

"James Moriarty."

Mycroft stilled. "Then someone has been very stupid. Shall I start looking for the inevitable fallout? A series of escalating crimes leading to something rather horrendously bloody in that country, I presume."

Elizabeth shook her head. "He's being held by a terrorist group in Saharan Africa that really has no working government for him to hold to ransom. There is no government involved in holding him, and scarcely any viable targets on which he could wreak havoc."

Mycroft allowed his left eyebrow to rise. "How convenient. Is it remotely possible that one of the man's own clients has finally had enough and taken him to task? That would be… poetic justice."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Alas, no. The evidence suggests this is simply an exercise in private enterprise. That said, it presents us with an opportunity that we have decided to take. In fact, we've actually been invited to do so."

"By whom?"

"By Moriarty himself. You see, he thinks it was engineered by us- according to the terrorist cell holding him. So, he has told them that he won't speak to anyone there, only to someone with a UK passport. So we have to send someone down there to make sure he knows it wasn't us, someone who can also perhaps forestall any punitive actions that his network might take against the UK."

Mycroft sniffed dismissively. "The better choice would be to avoid the whole problem- just pay whatever ransom the privateers want and get him out. He might even be grateful and leave us alone for a while."

"What, and miss the opportunity to see what can be extracted from him, in exchange for getting him out?" Mrs Ffoukes made her surprise clear. "The one chance we've had in a decade to hold his feet to the fire and you're willing to let him off lightly? You surprise me, Mycroft."

Lady Smallwood shifted in her seat slightly. The exchanges between Elizabeth Ffoukes and Mycroft Holmes had been going on as if she wasn't in the room. Her movement made Mycroft realise he was missing something important. She was there for a reason, yet the exchange so far was between two heads of security arguing about tactics. He broke off eye contact with Elizabeth, and subjected Lady Smallwood to his forensic gaze.

The two women might share a common first name, but there the similarity ended. Elizabeth Smallwood was what one might call 'an English rose'. Finely chiselled features, porcelain fair skin, she projected femininity. She worked hard to maintain it; the blonde hair was dyed very well, her make-up carefully applied to mask the fine webbing of wrinkles that graced the corners of her eyes. Now in her early sixties, she still had a beauty that would turn men's heads when she walked into a room. Of course, Mycroft was immune to such an effect, but he knew that she had leveraged herself into positions of influence by using it to her advantage.

She was now trying to meet his gaze without betraying anything at all, but he was able to discern that she, too, was nervous. _So, there is more to come._

He returned to Elizabeth and decided to cut to the chase. "What is it that you aren't telling me?"

When she didn't reply, Mycroft had a sudden flash of deductive insight. His eyes widened. "You're going to tell me that Moriarty is right. We…or, rather _you_ , are behind his capture. Have you taken leave of your senses?" He let his incredulity show. "What possible benefit could outweigh the risks? You will stop this idiocy immediately and order his release."

Lady Smallwood put her clasped hands onto the glass-topped table. "That is not a matter for you, Mister Holmes."

He turned back to her, and said very quietly but with deadly intent, "Nor, madam, is it a matter for _you_. I have no idea why you are even here, but you'd best hold your tongue while people who do know the consequences of this lunacy try to resurrect the situation."

That made her angry, and she snapped back at him, "You know that I am a personal friend of the Prime Minister. He is aware of the situation, although of course he will deny it if anyone was ever foolish enough to ask. I am his proxy here. And you are here to listen to what role you are going to play in this exercise. So, you can climb down off your high horse now and pay attention." There was something of the school headmistress in her tone.

He controlled his reaction. He _never_ showed his anger in a negotiation. But he was _enraged_ at her…presumption. How on earth was this possible? How could Elizabeth Ffoukes have connived with the Prime Minister to do something as daft as trying to take Moriarty on? It made _no_ sense. She was not stupid. She was not driven by an electoral timetable. There were no votes in taking on Moriarty. Above all else, she knew exactly how the scenario would play out- in the same way that every security service chief knew. The Irishman was untouchable.

He leaned back in his chair, consciously stopping any body language that might be construed as defensive. "Director General, _you_ of all people are fully aware of the consequences. If you have not advised the Prime Minister of these, then I am more than happy to oblige. Moriarty's contingency plans mean that his network will initiate an escalating programme of crimes for every day he is held. At what point will you let him go? When he's stolen the Crown Jewels? Assassinated the Prime Minister? Set off a dirty bomb at St Paul's cathedral? What possible information of his could be worth taking such a risk?"

"None. This isn't about getting information from him."

That answer confused Mycroft utterly. "Then what possible justification could there be for drawing his fire onto this country?"

"Because that is only the first step. This incarceration is not about _getting_ information from him; it's about _giving_ him information."

Mycroft began to consider how best to deal with a DG of MI6 being sectioned for insanity and removed from office.

Through his peripheral vision, he saw that Lady Smallwood had allowed a small smile to form on her lips. She was looking at the woman across the table. "I never thought I'd see the day; Mycroft Holmes, lost for words. You'd better put him out of his misery, Mrs Ffoukes."

As Mycroft glared at her, Elizabeth drew a deep breath. "It's about destroying his network's faith in his infallibility. Of course, he will be released before anything _too_ serious. But you're going to extract information from him, enough to solve or to prevent at least some of the earlier crimes from happening. And that will be seen by his people, his clients, his fallen angels as evidence that he has a weakness."

Mycroft heard the "you" in that statement, but decided to focus first on the last word. "Weakness? That man has no weaknesses."

"Yes, he does. Like someone else we know, he gets _bored_. And he likes to play with the Holmes Brothers. So that's what we are going to let him do. Only, this time it's _our_ game, and you're going to win."

Mycroft Holmes went very, very still. The silence lengthened. The two women exchanged glances across the table.

"I'm going to _kill_ my brother."

Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. "Funny- that's what he said you would say."

 


	5. Chapter 5

When the private jet's door was opened, the heat of the desert rushed in almost as fast as the air-conditioned coolness could escape. For once in his life, Mycroft wished he could shed the suit. But, given who he was about to meet, there was no chance of that happening. The twelve agents who accompanied him on the flight now swarmed out onto the tarmac of the pot-holed runway. Four would remain behind to protect the pilot and the plane. Like some exotic migratory bird blown off course, the sleek jet looked incongruous in this war-torn, failed state which seldom if ever saw such expensive examples of aviation engineering within its airspace, let alone sitting on the ground. As such, it needed to be protected from predatory bandits almost as much as the life of the man who had been carried in it.

The other eight men were equally well armed, and being quite obvious about it, in order to deter anyone thinking that the plane's passenger was an easy target. The two long bodied land rovers that met them by the runway were beaten up but their engines were well serviced. They needed to be, given the long cross-Saharan journeys they routinely made, moving illegal people and cargo from sub-Saharan Africa to the oil fields of Libya and back again. The drivers were members of AQIM, a group affiliated with al Qaeda. Re-armed by weaponry flowing south as Libya collapsed, the mercenary militia sometimes agreed to hire themselves out as smugglers and kidnappers for ransom when not pursuing their own political and religiously inspired agendas. Mycroft assumed that somehow they had been made an offer they could not refuse. He'd been told to keep his identity to himself. The AQIM men holding Moriarty had been told only that an English speaking interrogator would be sent.

As Mycroft climbed into the backseat of the car, one of the agents occupied the passenger seat next to the AQIM driver, and eyed him suspiciously. If he kept his sub-machine gun in his lap and pointed in a particular direction with the safety off, then it was done with obvious intent so the driver saw it. Three other agents went into the back of the land rover, and the other four went into the second car. Each man had been chosen carefully for this expedition- with considerable Saharan experience, most had been active in the liberation of Libya from Gaddafi's regime, and therefore knowledgeable about local languages and tribal factional infighting. 

He  _loathed_  field work. The people were bad enough, but the physical conditions were so…distracting. Added to that discomfort was his smoldering anger about the very idea of what he was being forced to do.

He'd been left with no illusions. Lady Smallwood conveyed the intent of the Prime Minister himself. "You'll be safe, Mycroft; we'll make sure of it." If Mycroft did not agree there and then to interrogate the man being held captive in Africa, he would be fired. The very idea of being  _fired_  was enough to enrage Mycroft, but what made his blood really boil was that he'd been manoeuvred into this position by his very own little brother.

"We're telling you only what you need to know in order to do what is necessary, Mister Holmes." Lady Smallwood was playing a part in this that far outweighed her usual role as chair of the Parliamentary Oversight Committee. "I am the 'cut-out', Mister Holmes. I protect the Prime Minister from what he doesn't need to know about what is going on, so he can deny everything if he needs to do so. You know how this works."

He had raged against it. "Elizabeth Ffoukes, you  _know_  how reckless and impulsive my brother is. Whatever nonsense he has concocted, it won't work. He's not to be trusted in this."

The DG just looked at him with compassion. "I know it's hard to believe, Mycroft. But, you're wrong. He's the only one able to pull this off. You don't know- and  _won't_  know about the whole thing- until it's over. That's to protect  _you_. I'm in something of the same boat. He's only told me what I need to know; again to protect  _me._ No one in any official capacity is going to be implicated by his plan. We will only know what we need to know- nothing more. The only thing you have to know is that I agree with Sherlock on this-the first step, the interrogation, will work better if you do it. And that raises the odds of success. You need to do this for the good of the country, and in order to improve Sherlock's chances of getting out of this alive."

He sighed. "You don't understand. However persuasive he's been, and I know just how persuasive that can be, he still won't be able to hold it together. He's just not the long term strategist. Brilliant? Yes, in his own way. But you cannot trust him to deliver something like this."

He'd argued, he'd threatened to resign. And at every point, she had a counter-argument ready. "He said that you would say that" became a frequent reply to his mounting anger.  _I've been out-manoeuvred by my little brother._  Never, ever, in his entire life had Mycroft been quite so  _annoyed_.

Conveniently, Sherlock had gone 'missing' just when Mycroft wanted to find him and disabuse him of any idea of continuing with this ridiculous 'plan' of his. John Watson picked up the call made to Sherlock that followed as soon as Mycroft could escape from the two women.

"Where is he?" Mycroft did not care that the doctor would be able to detect the degree of heat in that question, uttered as it was through severely clenched teeth.

"Don't know. He went walkabout sometime last night. It was odd; Sherlock doesn't usually leave his phone behind. If your people can't find him, then I assume that he doesn't want to be found. Should I be worried?"

No point in getting civilians involved, so Mycroft simply told John to inform him the moment Sherlock made contact. "It matters, John. This is not a personal request, but a matter of national security. Whatever he tells you, ignore it and phone me."

None of the five known bolt holes yielded up the coward. And then Mycroft ran out of time; the jet was waiting at Brize Norton airfield, and he had no choice but to go blind into this encounter with Moriarty. It had taken him hours on the plane to get his anger under control. The next time he saw Sherlock, he would make sure his brother would regret this more than anything else he'd ever done.

Six hours of flying and four hours of hot dusty driving later, the convoy arrived at what appeared to be an old concrete bunker, a relic of some forgotten military defence structure, built when this part of a former French colony had been considered a bastion against Nazi encroachment in Northern Africa. Two AQIM men, armed to the teeth, met them as they got out of the cars. Mycroft remained in the car until the leader of his team nodded. Arrangements had been made in advance; the team leader explained that the holding facility for the prisoner would be lightly manned- only a half dozen armed men were left behind once the prisoner was secured. _But things can always go wrong._  He had done his stint of field work twenty years ago; enough to know that it was not his naatural habitat. Mycroft was not a coward, but he knew his own limitations. And being at the wrong end of a machine gun wielded by the Sahara's local branch of Al Qaeda was not something he enjoyed.

Once escorted through the rusty yet surprisingly solid door to the bunker, Mycroft was immediately aware that outward appearances were deceiving. He welcomed the efficient air conditioning that dealt with the discomfort of his tailored cotton shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He insisted on being taken to a toilet, where he washed his face, to remove the dust and sweat of the journey. The mirror over the basin reflected back a face that to his eyes still betrayed his anger. He took several minutes to breathe deeply and to settle himself. When he checked the mirror again, he looked every inch the 'Ice Man', as Moriarty had called him.

Whatever he thought about the professionalism of the AQIM movement, Mycroft could not help but be impressed by the facility. KFR* was obviously a money-spinner for the group, and they had invested in strong security cells. He was led to one, and admitted by a side door to the viewing gallery. There, behind a mirrored window looking into the semi-darkness of an interrogation room, he laid eyes on Moriarty for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *KFR= kidnap for ransom, a fundraising activity practiced by many terrorist cells.


	6. Chapter 6

The dark-haired man at the table sat with his eyes closed. His face bore the evidence of his disagreements with his jailers. Beneath the bruises and scrapes, Mycroft saw features that were rather youthful for someone who was listed on file as 37 years old. Under a high forehead, the psychopath's face was not particularly memorable. He would make sure that photos were taken before they departed. Facial Recognition imaging would now have something to work on in the future.  _At least one useful thing will emerge from this fiasco._

Moriarty was bound to the chair with leather restraints at wrists and ankles. His once white t shirt bore traces of blood, sweat and vomit. But, he sat as if he were comfortable, with the faintest of smiles. Waiting. Patient. Confident.

According to his agent team leader, the Irishman had only said one sentence in the four days since he'd been brought here. The AQIM had recorded it and sent it to MI6. In the plane, Mycroft played and re-played the recording: "I have nothing to say to anyone else so just bugger off and get the Iceman here, if you would be so fecking kind." It was a voice he recognised well; the exchange of phone calls during the Bond Air business left an indelible memory for Mycroft.

According to the AQIM captors, nothing broke that calm, no amount of force or inflicted pain had made Moriarty utter a word since; they'd not managed to get much of a shout or scream out of him. It was as if the man had found the means to switch off the connection between his body and his brain. They said he was a  _Djinn_ \- an evil spirit in human form. They tried sleep deprivation, drugs, electric shock, noise sensitisation. Even waterboarding yesterday made no difference. Every time, the Irishman came up to consciousness wearing that same little smile.

Mycroft sighed and turned away from the mirrored window, nodding to the agent beside him and to the AQIM man he'd recognised as the team leader, just from the authority in his stance. The guard opened the door to the interrogation room and brought in a second chair, to sit across the metal table from the captive. When Mycroft came into the room and took his seat, the detainee made no movement; he didn't open his eyes. But, the smile on his face broadened.

"Oh, great day in the morning. The mountain has arrived at Mohammed's request. I can  _smell_  you, Holmes. The smugness just exudes from every fibre of Jermyn Street tailoring, every strand of fine Egyptian cotton in that shirt, from your very pores sweating through the posh boy deodorant in this desert heat- it's just…delicious…." Jim grinned as he opened his eyes. So dark, the pupils were dilated and showed almost no iris.  _The effects of the drugs they've tried using?_

"So, I'm here. How can I help you?" It was said in as mild a voice as possible, and as nonchalant as if Mycroft were answering the telephone.

"Ah, to be sure, you can help me a lot. But, not just yet, I think; no, no, no- I want to thank you first. Such a wonderful opportunity you've given me to demonstrate the power of my network and my little dark angels. Stage managed to perfection, my little heavenly chorus is singing its heart out and you are the one who is being cast out of your safe little haven of power. You'll be a fallen angel soon, Mycroft Holmes."

The man showed no sign of pain from his obvious injuries. In his many years of security work, Mycroft had seen men try to be stoical through interrogations; oddly, the most macho in attitude were often the first to crack. But never had he seen someone as  _oblivious_  as Moriarty to whatever had been inflicted. It was rather…unnerving.

The Irishman's delight was just singing out of his face. "Oh, joy of joys- by the look on your face, I can see that you've been sent here against your will. It's just too, too dee-light-full for words. Made every little bit of annoyance before now worth it, don't you know?" Jim sniggered. "You won't be able to hold me, Holmes."

"Who said I wanted to?" replied Mycroft in a slightly bored tone.

This broadened the smile into an outright grin. "Bless you, that's such very good news. I am so glad that I had not underestimated you. That little confession of yours makes this just that teensy bit more enjoyable, seeing as we are both on the same page here. Well, as my little friends have demonstrated, every day your compatriots keep me locked up will see yet another crime committed. Four so far, each one bigger and better than the other."

Mycroft nodded. "Tell me something I don't know." Again the slight tone of boredom. He was well aware of the escalating toll. The first few had been burglaries – an important piece of art gone missing, then a bank raid, eventually a rare diamond from the Natural History Museum- each item stolen had been replaced with a Monopoly Game's "Get out of Jail Free" card. Just yesterday, another series of simultaneous thefts, specifically targeting the individual members of the COBRA committee. Even the Prime Minister's Office in Number 10 had reported a theft. Nothing significant- just a personal item from the desk of the Prime Minister. Only Mycroft had been spared.

"Did you like that touch? Everyone but you. I don't know what crime they actually committed but the fourth day was designed to leave the message about  _you_. And they got it, didn't they? Served you up nice and fresh, I could just eat you alive, Mycroft Holmes. The grub is rather basic here, but seeing you here is just like ambrosia- food for my very soul, you are."

He rolled his eyes and looked coyly at Mycroft, whose face betrayed absolutely nothing of what he was feeling. After years of practice, he'd learned how to control every facet of his outward personality. His anger was completely camouflaged.

Moriarty just shrugged his shoulders at Mycroft's lack of reaction. "All a bit of a lark? I assume it's all been kept out of the press back in Blighty, but don't worry, when the crimes start escalating now, it won't be possible to keep them out of the meedja. I told them to start small- steal a few things, interesting things- be  _creative_ , I told them. So far, it's only property, but I'm going to steal something far more valuable from you, Mycroft Holmes. Not a petty burglary. Want something  _much_  more important from you."

The Irishman smirked. "The funny thing is, I know that I won't actually have to steal if from you; you'll give it up willingly."

Mycroft looked at him, really looked at him now. His bored air was gone, replaced by the kind of intensity that he reserved for very few problems in his life.

"Ah, now that has got your attention, hasn't it? Hmm… is the Iceman feeling the heat a little more now? I do hope so. That thought has kept me together over the past four days while your little munchkins try to do their worst." He nodded his head from side to side, as if savouring the moment before continuing, "By keeping me here, illegally, without charge, well- it's unlawful detention, isn't it? I'm entitled to face my accusers, to due process, to trial by my peers, but we both know that isn't going to happen. Well, to start with, I mean, really? I  _have_  no peers!" Moriarty giggled. "Of course, you are a Peer, and if the Government hadn't mucked about with things, you'd be a member of the House of Lords. But, even so…" He shook his head and gave an exaggerated frown. "Even  _you_  aren't my peer." He stared straight at Mycroft. "And of course, you'll never put me inside a court room; you'd be too embarrassed when the judicial decision went against you and in my favour."

Mycroft said mildly, "Perhaps if you were to confess to something we could actually charge you with, then the machinery of due process could be yours, too."

"Do me the courtesy of not insulting my intelligence. In return, I'm going to do you the courtesy of explaining our little game now,  _Mister_  Holmes, so please pay attention. For every piece of information you give me, I will give you a little clue. If you're very, very good, then you can use it to block my network on the day- so it's one less crime that you have to deal with. Without the clue you haven't a hope in hell of stopping the crimes; you could have the cretins in this jail beat me to death and they won't get the so-called truth out of me about these crimes, because, quite simply, I don't know enough about them. Ultimate failsafe, don't you think? All set up as contingency plans years ago, and these crimes will take place without me knowing much about them. You can tell the eejits who authorised this little game that they will only realise that my team's work been at work when the crime scene is discovered. And every crime will get worse."

Mycroft affected his bored air again. "Crime happens; the world continues. Why do you think that would matter?"

" _DON'T PLAY THE FOOL!"_  The shout was startling after the conversational tone. "We both know where this is headed, even if those other morons that agreed to this aren't able to see it coming. Mind you," he giggled, "I don't think they see much beyond their silly little noses, do they?"

Jim tilted his head and smiled at Mycroft, looking up at the older man through his eyelashes, coyly, as if he were flirting. "You know all this. Must be  _so_  annoying that the only one able to see the whole picture as well as you do is little old me. If only they'd believed you. Shame that- but I guess the Jumbo Jet fiasco made them doubt you."

The Irishman smiled conspiratorially. "Well, buck up, my little snowman. Winter's coming and you'll soon be able to say 'I told you so' in that oh so posh and superior voice of yours. You'll have guessed that we're close to the first boundary now; so far, it's been property that has been targeted. Soon, very soon, people will start getting hurt. And the longer I'm in here, the more hurt they get, until we reach the next boundary and people start dying. And the longer I stay in here, the more people die. Until, at last, you'll be presented with a price tag of my continued custody that is simply too high to pay. What will be the decision point I wonder? One innocent victim? Twenty? Two hundred, or two thousand? You know as well as I that you'll let me go in the end. Save the innocents and keep the peace by giving me what I want to know."

Mycroft returned the gaze with a quiet aplomb. "I thought you knew  _everything_. That's surely what you claim."

"Nooo, not quite  _everything,_ otherwise what's the point of this little charade? No, we do this properly you and I, equal to equal. You give me something and I concede something in return. That's how it works. What do I want to know? Well, that's simple. Nothing too sinister- no missile defence plans, no MOD codes, nothing _treasonous_ ; after all, you have Good Queen Bess to protect. Anyway, I can get all that without you. All I want from you are the easy things, starting with just one juicy fact about your little brother's life. Something personal, something not known by anyone else. The information serves no purpose except to satisfy my personal curiosity. For each fact, I will give you a clue. Just a teensy one, something that you will have to work really, really hard at. If you do succeed, then you can subtract a day, a crime. I can't give you any more, because I don't actually know any more. But, you fancy yourself as the clever one of the Holmes brothers. Let's see if you can do it."

"I have more important things to do than play games with you." Mycroft put some patrician distain in the tone of his voice. He'd had years of experience in shrugging off the demands of a little brother forever asking him to play some game or another.

Jim just laughed and leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Does the heat here bother you? Can't be amused with hanging about, wasting time? Okay. I hear you, so I'll make this really simple. Remember the old game of Twenty Questions? Well, four have already past- too late to catch that particular bus. Tell me answers to sixteen of my questions, and I will put the final crime on the table, so you can get them to let me out, and save an awful lot of people's lives. You get to go home early. You'll be the hero. Justify their faith in you. Confirm their hope that you are the one who can be trusted to put Queen and Country before familial loyalty. And, finally, you'll be able to prove to those critics that you don't put your brother's weaknesses above the greater good."

Mycroft had known instinctively that it would probably come to this. So, obviously had Sherlock. That's why he had engineered this whole confrontation. Mycroft would be forced to betray his brother's secrets in exchange for the clues to stop the crimes. The process would undermine faith in the man's infallibility amongst the network and his clients. To Moriarty, it would feel a victory. And it would further fuel his obsession with the Holmes.  _Oh, Sherlock, you are selling your very soul to this devil in the hope that it will bring him down._ To be the instrument of his brother's downfall was...painful. For a moment, the sense of  _deja vu_  was overwhelming, before he mentally shook the image of another brother's face out of his mind.  _HE deserved it; Sherlock doesn't- or at least he doesn't for anything other than hubris and stupidity._  He said nothing. The constriction across his chest had to be controlled, so no moment of weakness was seen by his enemy across the table.

But Moriarty's observational skills were as good as Sherlock's. He smirked. " _GOTCHA,_ Mycroft Holmes. Can any one man's privacy be worth so much? Can a brother who loathes you be entitled to expect your support when it comes at such a price? Don't we all have to make little sacrifices along the way? Just think of it, duty comes first; family second. Besides, hasn't everyone always told you that he wasn't worth the effort of caring? Just give him up. Everyone except Sherlock will understand it."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. Let Moriarty think he's won.  _Oh, Sherlock, you were SO right about this._  The look of pain that he put on his face was not forced or anything but genuine.  _Brother mine, do you REALLY understand where this is going to end?_


	7. Chapter 7

Several hours later, the fencing match was getting serious tiresome. The Irishman tried to make Mycroft feel uncomfortable about giving away his brother's secrets, to use the process as a way of getting to the elder Holmes. But, Mycroft handled the exchange as if it were a boring bureaucratic treaty negotiation. He put distance between himself and the subject matter, doling the details out about his brother as if it were of no more concern to him than a bus timetable. He simply wouldn't play Moriarty's game.

"You're no fun, Frosty. I want you to suffer a bit, be embarrassed about all the foibles and misdemeanours of your junkie brother."

"You are sadly mistaken if you think that. Caring is not an advantage. I am too aware of his deficits and always have been. What surprises me, Mister Moriarty, is why you  _do_  seem to care so much. Rather a weakness of yours, don't you think?"

That made the Irishman tilt his jaw and flex it. "You don't understand him at all, do you? Sherlock is unique. A matter of spotting a kindred spirit; I have no doubt that he has annoyed you all his life, an affront to your professional pride, no doubt." He put on an exaggerated parental tone, "Such a disappointment, Sherlock; why can't you be more like your brother?" He smiled wolfishly at Mycroft. "And when he doesn't behave, then it's 'off you go now Sherlock, be a good boy and do your time in Rehab.' You try to clip his wings but still he manages to fly away. He could be just like me, if you hadn't got in the way."

Mycroft looked at him with a raised left eyebrow. "Yes, exactly. That's why I have."

"Right, time to get down and dirty, Holmes. I can give you the clue you need to break tomorrow's crime. Day Five…" He made an exaggerated show of trying to remember, looking up at the ceiling as if he was racking his brain. Then a great laugh erupted. "Oh,  _now_  I remember; this one's  _fun_. It's going to be a joke that gets plastered all over the papers, but, uh oh…turns out someone gets truly embarrassed and then it's not so funny anymore."

"What do you want in exchange?" Mycroft put as much tedium into his tone as he could. "This isn't a Turkish bazaar. I won't haggle. Information for information."

"I want to know all about  _Daddy. T_ he first time Daddy rejected your little brother. All the details please, please, pleeeese- why, how long, and what happened next. After all, it has to be the most formative experience of his life- being told he's too defective to be a part of the family. Must have had consequences. Maybe I can use that to leverage a bit of co-operation. I love the challenge of trying to win him over to the dark side. Make him one of my minions, not yours. That would  _irk_  you, I think."

Undaunted, Mycroft told him the facts.* Unembellished, it sounded like a medical report on some anonymous patient. No matter how the Irishman tried to poke at him, to provoke an emotional reaction, Mycroft did not rise to the bait.

Twenty four hours later, Mycroft had a much better idea of where it was going to end. Moriarty was clearly insanely obsessed with Sherlock. The Irishman was willingly giving up what little information he had about the crimes being planned, in exchange for personal details about Sherlock. Mycroft had drawn out the information he needed to work on blocking the next five crimes. He was satisfied.

So was the man across the table, whose smile was still ever-present, despite the array of bruises, dirt and stubble on his face. "I must admit, Frosty, you've been most informative; I really hadn't realised just what a naughty boy Sherlock has been. He's not cold, like you, more my kind of man. You know, I am really surprised that he hasn't ended up batting for my side. He's ideal for it; no sense of morals at all. Takes one to know one."

Mycroft looked a sleep-deprived Moriarty in the eye. The stench of sweat, blood and vomit was...rather revolting. The Irishman smirked. "Well, I may not be the belle of the ball, but you look positively  _rumpled_  Holmes. And somehow I think my threshold for degradation is much higher than yours. So, you've come to a decision, haven't you?"

"Yes." Late last night, after a lengthy secure satellite call to London passing on the likely targets of crime number five and how to block it, Mycroft realised that it would definitely be easier just to get it all over with. Despite Moriarty's definite masochistic tendencies, he'd had his fun now and probably wanted to go home. So, this afternoon he proceeded with a different negotiating strategy.

A bit of deflection at first: "Good news. We stopped the first one I got from you yesterday, by the way. Rather child's play that one." The case had involved a sting operation, filming an egotistical Government Minister implying that he would take cash in exchange for a change on a bill going through Parliament. Embarrassing during an election campaign, but blocking it hadn't been that hard.

"Mmmm, good. Nice of me to let you build a little confidence up, isn't it? And all you had to give me in exchange was that tragic little tale of Mummy dying and Daddy carting Sherlock off to the loony bin. Nice to know that he has  _form_." The smirk looked odd, given the stubble and dirt on his face.

Mycroft affected a sigh of boredom. "I have better things to do than to waste time in this little strip tease, so let's accelerate things. We've survived four days' worth of crime and I've deflected the fifth. We've horse-traded for the next five. By your own reckoning, that leaves ten more crimes. Write down twelve questions. I get to choose which ten I will answer, which I will do when I return. Before you give me a clue, I will give you an answer. Prioritise your questions, so they match the severity of the crime in sequence. Have we a deal?" He put as much nonchalance in the tone was he thought he could get away with. Mycroft withdrew from his inside jacket pocket a small pad of paper, which he placed in front of Moriarty. He pulled out his Mont Blanc pen and opened it, placing it carefully beside the pad.

Moriarty wiggled his fingers in his restrained right hand. " _Quid pro quo_ , Iceman. If you get to ignore some of my questions, I get to drop some of my network's crimes out of the discussion. Want to take that risk? That something might be a little too close to home? I mean, my network could always throw something at the royal that Irene had fun thrashing. Or maybe one of the crimes that gets slipped by you is my minions' attempt to expose Sherlock's little bad habits?" He giggled. "Who knows, they might get inventive enough to hack into his blog site and start telling the truth rather than that preposterous drivel that his pet doctor posts. Land him in a libel or slander case? Why not? Hmm…which ones shall I drop out?" He closed his eyes, as if going through the list.

Mycroft manufactured an elaborate sigh. "Very well; one for one. You overestimate the degree to which I care about Sherlock's reputation. I mean, really-  _blogging_." He packed as much distain into the word as possible.

Moriarty waggled the fingers of his restrained hand. "Only one problem with your scenario…you'll have to undo the strap."

"That's no problem. There will be two AQIM guards and one of mine, all armed, in separate corners of this room watching you write."

oOo

Five hours and forty five minutes later, Mycroft was back on the pot-holed tarmac beside the jet. The hot and dusty drive back had soured his mood even more. He had the mother of all headaches brewing behind his eyes, but he knew he would need to spend the whole of the flight deducing what he could from the crumbs of information that Moriarty had given him about the upcoming crimes.

At least the Irishman agreed to set them in escalating order, which in theory gave him more time to deal with the worse ones. Of course, it could all be a ruse, and the crimes would start occurring out of sequence. So, best solved  _now_ , if at all possible.

Mycroft was under no illusions. The two Elizabeths would judge his mission to be "successful", even though Mycroft felt it had been anything but. He did manage to extract what he had been told to get, but at a cost of too much information that would be used against his brother. That made him even angrier at Sherlock than he had been before he went to the desert.

Soon enough the mad man would get down to the business of wreaking his revenge. Mycroft had been in enough negotiations in his time to know a defeat when it happened. This was not a score draw, but a decisive one-nil defeat that his brother would end up paying for- with everything that he should have valued: his reputation, his work, the people around him, even his life. Mycroft saw the possible scenarios playing out- and far too many of them ended with Sherlock dead. Worse still, some saw Sherlock joining Moriarty, a fate  _worse_  than death, in Mycroft's view. Both outcomes were simply  _unacceptable_.

Once he got onto the plane and started to cool off in the air conditioning, he contacted the two men he had left behind at the desert installation. Bounced off a satellite, the call was picked up on the second ring.

"Yes?"

"All right. Let him go."

"There's something you should see, sir. The AQIM guards only let me see it just now. I'll attach the photo."

Mycroft looked down at the photo icon that appeared on his phone and clicked on it.

It was the inside of Moriarty's cell. The Irishman had managed to smuggle something into the cell and used it to scratch Sherlock's name dozens and dozens of times- on the walls, the back of the door, even scratched the name into the one-way mirror in reverse, so that whoever was looking in would see the name the right way around.

Mycroft felt his suit jacket's inside pocket- and realised that his Mont Blanc pen was missing. The irony of it being used to demonstrate Moriarty's obsession was not lost on the elder Holmes. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the scent of his own sweat, and the cling of his soaked cotton shirt. The desert sand was in his nostrils, the dust raised by the Landrovers gave his skin a chalky feel. Utterly disgusting.

He felt used and cornered. That was a new experience. If anyone had cared to ask before this fiasco, he would have willingly admitted that his own skills as a manipulator were far superior to Sherlock's. Whatever his brother had tried over the decades, he's never managed to outwit him before. It was deeply, deeply annoying. He breathed in and calmed himself. He needed to make sure that his brother knew the truth depth of his anger. If that dissuaded the idiot from this ridiculous crusade against Moriarty, then that would be good- unlikely, but good. On the assumption that it would not deter, Mycroft started his contingency planning- the means by which he would get Sherlock into an institution where he would be protected from being a threat to both himself and to others.  _I do this for your own sake, brother. And for mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: the story of Sherlock and his father is told in Periodic Tales, over on FanFiction. How Mycroft has dealt with Sherlock over his life is told in earlier chapters of that story, and also in Collateral Damage and SideLined, here on Ao3.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hand me the spanner, will you, Mrs Hudson?" John had his head and half his torso under the sink in the kitchen, inside the cupboard whose contents had been carefully placed on the dish drainer.

Martha Hudson passed him the tool. She had lost her wedding ring down the sink when she was trying to unblock it, and was in a right state. "Oh, please tell me I haven't lost it for good; I will never forgive myself." She was standing over John's prone body, wringing her hands in her apron.

Sherlock was working at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the two of them. He sighed. "It's not like you want to remember your husband. He was the one executed for a double murder and drugs dealing, in case you've forgotten."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Martha Hudson snapped. "I don't expect you to understand, but there was a time when I did love my husband a great deal. Before all that business in Florida; he wasn't always a bad person. And that ring is important to me."

" _Sentiment_." Sherlock sniffed and returned to his microscope.

Because John had his head under the sink, he didn't hear the front door onto Baker Street being shut with a bang. But Mrs Hudson did. "Now whoever could that be? Must be one of yours, Sherlock- whoever it is has a key."

Sherlock suddenly sat up straight. "Mrs Hudson, you need to leave now. In fact, take John with you. You can resume this…pointless exercise later."

She put her hands on her hips. "You're impossible. First, you leave a sink so disgusting that I have to clean it, then you won't help me find my ring, and you force John into doing it instead. Now because you've got someone coming to see you, you're being rude in the hope I will go away."

Under the sink, John grunted. The spanner was slipping around the main joint of the S bend, and he would need to find a pair of ratchet pliers instead. He slid himself out onto the kitchen floor, and sat up. "Is it a client, Sherlock? If so, then I need to be here so you don't bite someone's head off. You've been foul tempered all day."

The doctor could hear footsteps coming up the stairs and then stopping at the door into the flat. The kitchen door was closed, so whoever it was would probably come into the living room first. Sherlock was already in motion, and had taken up a position by the fireplace. John got the strange sense that Sherlock was exceedingly tense and anxious.

That impression was amplified when whoever it was opened the living room door and walked in. John couldn't see who it was from where he was in the kitchen. But Sherlock's face became hard, unreadable. Alarmed, John got to his feet and started toward the living room. Some defensive instinct made him keep the spanner in his hand.

As he came around the corner, he realised the other person who had entered the room was Mycroft. John came to a halt and looked first at Sherlock, then at his brother.  _Something is very, very wrong._ The tension in the room was electrically charged, although nothing had been said.

Sherlock broke the silence first. "John, take Mrs Hudson downstairs  _now._  And go with her."

"Wise choice, brother mine." There was something menacing in the tone of Mycroft's voice that made John grip the spanner tighter. This was different from the usual banter, the occasional argument, the give and take of insults that the two brothers had exchanged over the years. Mycroft was incandescently angry, and he was making sure that his brother could see that fact.

Martha Hudson caught the tone. "Whatever is the matter, Mister Holmes? I'm sure that it can be sorted…"

Sherlock broke off his staring match with Mycroft to glance at John. "Leave.  _Just do it._ "

John followed the snapped order obediently, hustling a startled Mrs Hudson out the kitchen door and down the steps to her own flat. At the bottom, she turned to him with an anxious face. "John, I've never seen him like that. Sherlock's been in trouble before now, but…" she faltered, unsure of how to put her fears into words. John finished the sentence for her. "Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'm headed right back up there, because something tells me that Sherlock needs backup."

By the time he reached the top of the stairs and headed down to landing, John realised that Mycroft must have shut the doors. Voices could be heard, but they were not raised. This was an argument too serious for shouting. He opened the kitchen door just as he heard the sound of a vicious slap – skin against skin, it was a unique sound. He didn't need to see it to know what it was. He bolted in through the kitchen and into the living room, just as Mycroft started to unleash a second one.

But this time Sherlock ducked it neatly and moved catlike around the leather and chrome chair to put distance between him and his brother. "Getting slow in your middle age? Maybe that's why I had to do this." It was quietly said, but the taunt did little to draw John's attention away from the angry red mark blossoming on Sherlock's cheek.

"Don't you dare." Mycroft growled this in a voice that was literally choked with rage. He was totally oblivious to the fact that John was standing behind him still with a spanner in his hand.  _Somehow, I don't think that clocking the British Government over the head is a good idea._  If it had been anyone else threatening bodily harm to Sherlock, he might have been tempted to do so.

"What's going on?" He said it in the clear authoritative tones of an army officer used to breaking up squaddies' brawls. But while it might have worked on countless earlier occasions, neither of the Holmes brothers gave any indication that they had even heard the question, let alone intended to answer.

Sherlock was stony faced, watching his brother as if the man were some dangerous reptile. He wasn't going to run, but neither was he going to get anywhere near the threat implied by Mycroft's posture. John didn't blame him. Mycroft was scary at the best of times; now, when he was making no attempt to control his anger, he was positively terrifying.

Mycroft's anger erupted into words. " _WHY?_ What madness possessed you to think you could do this, Sherlock? Have you been indulging in deplorable habits again? Is this the idea of a drug-addled mind or have you  _finally_  gone off the deep end?" The next question was spat out with real venom. "Time to call Doctor Cohen again, is it? A stint in rehab to bring you to your senses? Yes, I think so."

That made Sherlock roll his eyes. "You've  _ALWAYS_  underestimate me, brother. Time you realised that I am not ten years old anymore."

Finally, Mycroft raised his finger and pointed it emphatically at Sherlock. "You will  _NOT_  win this, Sherlock. I will show them just how wrong they are about you. You won't last a month…" The sneer was evident on a face wrought with emotions that normally hid behind a mask of superior indifference. With this pronouncement, Mycroft straightened his waistcoat, collected his coat and umbrella that had been tossed aside onto the sofa, and marched down the stairs of Baker Street.

John watched him go, and then turned a startled look to his flatmate. "Just what the hell have you done, Sherlock?"


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as the front door onto Baker Street shut behind Mycroft, John put the spanner down on the kitchen table, alongside the lab kit. He repeated his earlier question. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Nothing that concerns you." The younger man sat down on the sofa, and then languidly stretched out. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

John wasn't prepared to ignore it. "I've never seen Mycroft hit you before. He doesn't strike me as the type to get physical. He'd think himself above that sort of thing. What on earth have you done that would make him do that?"

A single grey green eye popped open and skewered John with one of Sherlock's death glares. "Why do you assume it is something that  _I_  have done wrong? Perhaps it is Mycroft who is the one at fault, and I just managed to draw it to someone else's attention?"

"Okay- then what's Mycroft done wrong?"

"None of your business." The eye closed again.

No matter how John phrased the question, Sherlock wouldn't reply. Eventually, he got off the sofa and went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Later that afternoon, John managed to get the sink trap off, and found Mrs Hudson's wedding ring in there, amongst the tea leaves that she had been trying to clean out.

She was so grateful that she gave him a hug. "Thank you, John. You have no idea what this means to me. I know he was a rotter at the end, but our first five years were the happiest of my life. We were young, in love and wild about each other. It was a crazy time, the late '60s. Sherlock just doesn't understand that because all he ever saw was what happened at the end."

She fixed a pot of tea for them both. "Do try to stop him from putting all those horrible experiments of his down the sink, John. I shudder to think what bits have gone down there. My poor ring- I'll have to sterilise it before wearing it again."

"Not body parts this time, Mrs Hudson, just too many tea leaves."

She tutted. "That's what tea bags are for, to stop all the bits from getting into the sink." She opened the cupboard and took down the box of tea bags, popping two into the warmed tea pot.

"Don't let him hear you. To Sherlock, the tea bag is the invention of the devil, because it allows 'rubbish to masquerade as proper tea'." He got the accent and tone just right; Sherlock was easy enough to mimic, even though the doctor didn't have as deep a speaking voice as his flatmate.

She smiled as she handed over John's mug of tea and a biscuit, and sat herself down across from him, in Sherlock's chair. "Go on, John, dunk your biscuit. I know Sherlock always thinks I'm a pleb when I do it, but he's not here. He can be a posh git, just like his brother."

As she sipped her tea, he could see she was troubled. "What's happened between those two? Did you find out what it was? I've never seen Mister Holmes like that before. Usually, he's the polite one, and Sherlock's the one who forgets his manners. I don't like it when families fight, it's just not right."

John tried to be philosophical about it. "Not all families get on. My sister and I still go at it like cats and dogs."

"Oh, John, I'm not talking about spats. Those two boys- well, seven years apart was always going to cause problems. The older one resents having to look after the baby; the younger one ends up butting up against the privilege and authority of the older one. But, underneath all their bluster, they still care. Or at least I thought they did until this afternoon. That was different. It was  _scary._ "

He had to agree.

The next day was no better. Sherlock just clammed up and did not speak. Not that afternoon, or evening, or the next day, at all.

On the evening of the second day, John was on his way home from a shift at the clinic when his mobile went off. It was a text from Lestrade.

**5.50pm Fancy a pint? I need a consult about a consulting detective.**

John texted back.

**5.53pm Yes, please. Frog & Firkin in fifteen.**

By the time John got there, Lestrade was already  _in situ_ , and two pints of London Pride bitter were waiting. The DI had just taken his first long pull of the beer, looking like he needed it badly.

"That kind of day? John's had actually been a bit boring- a never-ending series of sore throats, bad coughs, fevers- too many patients just didn't understand that the best cure for a cold or the flu was rest, paracetemol and tissues. He simply refused to be one of those GPs who dispensed antibiotics just to appease people's idea that it made a difference, and justified them taking time off for work. So far, he had avoided catching it himself. But Greg looked very weary and worn.

The DI nodded and took a second pull at the beer after muttering, "With bells on."

John gave him a sympathetic smile and lifted his own glass.

When Greg finished swallowing, he asked, "Do you know what's going on between Sherlock and his brother?"

"Not a clue. Watched an almighty bust up in Baker Street three days ago, but not enough words were exchanged for me to make out why. And Sherlock is in 'non-verbal mode' at the moment- in fact, ever since the disagreement. Why do you ask?"

"Because I got hauled up to the Assistant Chief Commissioner of Detectives today to be told that Sherlock was now 'off limits' when it came to police case work. He just said that orders had come from the "authorities that cannot be named" that until further notice Sherlock Holmes was  _persona non grata_."

John grimaced. "I suppose that's to be expected when you piss off a minor official of the British Government. He has the power to do that." The doctor downed another swallow of beer before continuing. "Something else you should know. When the two of them had their argument, Mycroft hit him. Hard, the slap left a mark that lasted a couple of hours."

Lestrade looked startled. "That's never happened before. Mycroft is too much in control of things to lose it like that." His tone of voice told John how seriously worried Greg was, when he continued "This isn't the usual hassle. I've seen those two dog-fight for decades. But, not like this. Usually, it's a case of Sherlock doing something stupid- breaking the rules, or falling off the wagon and back into old habits. Then Mycroft pulls the big brother routine. Sherlock snaps and snarls, but generally it sorts itself out." He seemed to hesitate a moment. "Well. Most of the time."

"What?" John was curious, and more than a little worried.

Greg stared at the beads of condensation forming on the outside of his glass. "Bloody pub- serves the beer too cold."

"Greg…" John needed to know.

The silver haired man frowned. "Twice before, when he's been forced into Rehab, a couple of months after he got out, he overdosed." The DI closed his eyes, as if that could stop the memory of him finding Sherlock on the roof of the Peabody Buildings in south London*.

John wasn't shocked. He knew about the suicide attempts. He'd learned about those when Sherlock was being treated for his injuries after a run-in with a Russian **. It still distressed him to think of it.  _Why does he care so little of his life that he would do that?_

The DI was now giving John a searching look. "Is he using again, John?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"He's very good at hiding it; don't assume he'd behave the way most junkies would. I've seen him function as if perfectly sober on a dose of cocaine that would have someone else bouncing off the walls."

John grimaced. "I'm a doctor. It's hard to hide pupil dilation. And, according to Sherlock, cocaine makes him behave 'normally', whatever that is supposed to mean. He isn't behaving normally. For the past week or ten days, he's been tense, on edge, even anxious. Even when he's lying on the sofa pretending to be thinking. I've lived and worked with him long enough to know the difference between him actually working on a case and doing something else. This is something else."

The DI was nearly at the bottom of his pint glass. "We need to keep an eye on him. When he learns that police case work is off limits, then he's not going to be happy. I hope to God that your website produces some private client work. I know what happens when the work dries up. You've never really seen it; I have. If he isn't using yet, then it is only a matter of time." He finished the last bit in the glass. "The way I figure, Mycroft is actually pushing him to the brink, in order to watch him fall over it. That way, he can take whatever action he wants to take against Sherlock, even if that means locking him up."

John thought about it. Long and hard. Given previous occasions when Mycroft had done just that, it seemed plausible. And he knew that Sherlock was pretty paranoid about it, based on past experiences**. The doctor had hoped that those days were past. But today there seemed very little evidence to support that aspiration.

"Then we will just have to make sure that whatever Mycroft is trying to do, Sherlock is able to get through it."

Greg nodded. "It's not going to be easy. There will be danger days as well as danger nights. It all depends on whether he wants to really resist this time when his brother tries to push all the right buttons. He's never managed it before."

Almost in unison, the two men returned to their beers to take a long, reflective swallow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** covered in SideLined
> 
> and that's the end of this installment of the Fallen Angel Series. The next one starts tomorrow- "Counter-Measures", when Mycroft tries to fight back against Sherlock's DIY campaign against Moriarty.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: * If you want to know why his predecessor was a traitor, then read my prequel- Level Up, which covers the story of what happened next after the Scandal in Belgravia.


End file.
